


... they play a game

by Kavi Leighanna (kleighanna)



Series: Homecoming [12]
Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: F/M, Shameless Smut, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 16:59:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2515067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kleighanna/pseuds/Kavi%20Leighanna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's nothing at first. A subtle shift here, a nudge of her weight there. Simple, easy movements that wouldn't make him the wiser. In theory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	... they play a game

The party is a gorgeous affair, as these things have a habit of being. Massive ballroom, white covered tablecloths, an open bar and a parquet dance floor. It makes her a bit sick.

His palm on her back, gentle but pressing, snaps her back to the rather dull conversation going on around her. Justice, increased sentences for the worst - which has never made logical sense; how does one make a sentence longer when it's already for life - debate about the death penalty - she's still not over the fact that her husband doesn't believe in it, despite what he sees every day. It's tedious.

"Our law enforcement agencies work very well together, Mr. Secretary," her husband says with a forced sort of calm. Ah, not the death penalty but the age-old debate of interagency cooperation.

"A permanent task force would do more harm than good," she agrees, sipping at her wine. To amuse herself, she leans into him, feels his fingers tense on her bare back. She remembers his face when she'd slid into the dress, heat in his eyes and affection in his smile. He's onto her though, strokes her spine to make her shiver. She does, of course.

"Cold, Mrs. Hotchner?"

She doesn't take the breath to correct him, but offers a smooth smile. This is her game as much as it is his and she's been playing it longer. "Concerned," she answers easily. "Our agencies juggle politics and bureaucracies daily. Autonomy from each other and the government allows for necessary checks and balances and less red tape."

His hand smooths along her back again, a subtle and seductive caress. She smiles into her wine glass. He knows how much she loves this game, knows how much she likes being seduced. And he likes the pressure on his control the same way she likes to break it.

She moves closer then, slowly. It won't do either of them any good if their game is discovered. His hand slips, lower and lower, daring for a man so carefully controlled. And yet, she knows, there's a desperation in him that goes both ways, the knowledge of what it feels like to be apart. It makes them both vibrate with need when they're this close. He can't help the touch, the craving he feels to slide those talented fingers beneath the edge of that dress to the delicate, private skin beneath.

In a move she makes look entirely nonchalant and mindless, she loops her arm around him in turn. It's almost scandalous given present company, but she just barely toes that line. There's a reward in it too as his lips brush her temple. She smiles. It wouldn't be the first time they've been mocked for their adorably nauseating behaviour. It's come in handy more than once, the terrifying juxtaposition between what they are on the job and who they are off it. 

And then she attacks.

It's nothing at first. A subtle shift here, a nudge of her weight there. Simple, easy movements that wouldn't make him the wiser. In theory. In practice, however, they've played this game way too many times for him to be blind and dumb to what she's doing. Not that she minds, really. The game is so much more fun when he is an equal participant.

"Gentlemen, ma'am. If you'll excuse us, I believe I want to dance with my wife," she hears him say just as she drags her fingers along the waistband of his pants. The movement is hidden by his jacket, but she has to bite down on a grin. She knows every nuance of his voice by now, can hear the leashed heat in the sound. If she plays her cards right, they'll barely have to stay another hour. She thinks she can make it half that.

She starts the minute they're away from prying eyes, deliberately sliding her hand around his side, up his chest as he takes her waist. He holds her close, always has and always will, she thinks, settling their entwined hands over his heart. She hums as she flattens her palm, feels the soft shirt beneath her fingertips and the strong steady chest beneath. He tucks his face close - it's been a while since either of them really cared about propriety on the dance floor. Their wedding, she thinks, maybe before. A dim bar, the team not far, and him, uncharacteristically drunk enough to have wandering hands - and the smile rises on her face as his breath ghosts over her neck. He feels it against his cheek, the soft affection in it, and presses his mouth to her bare shoulder in a fleeting kiss. 

"That dress is killing me."

She laughs, lets the sound trail off as she presses one, two, three kisses against his neck. "We could get out of here. There's a gorgeous hotel room just upstairs that's ours for the evening."

He lifts his head, meets her eyes, and she's almost positive that hotel room is in her immediate future. "If you can behave yourself, we can go home."

He has an aversion to taking her in hotel rooms, a combination of the job and their long distance past. He prefers their home, their bed and the ridiculously romantic symbolism of what they've created there. Together. It would make her swoon, but they both know the simmering heat is too close to the surface. Formal wear does that to both of them.

"We could," she acknowledges in a low voice, her fingertips stroking his chest. She feels the growl in his throat more than she hears it. She laughs again. "Or not."

He wraps her fingers in his own, keeps them from attacking, from seducing. But it is not, by far, the only thing in her arsenal. She steps closer, fits her body right up against his. His head dips down so his mouth brushes her ear.

"I do believe, Agent Prentiss," because he knows her title and her maiden name have more of a pull than her married name. It's not that she isn't proud to be his wife, but it reminds her of all they've been through, of how far they've come. It gets at the emotion she no longer compartmentalizes with him. "You are trying to cut our evening short."

She snorts. "Like you haven't wanted to whisk me upstairs since the moment we arrived.”

The smile he flashes her is bright and more than a little wicked. It sends her insides flipping and a pleasurable ache she's very familiar with settles low in her belly. He lets his hand slide up her spine and then very deliberately back down. Her nerve endings spark and her eyelids flutter. She just barely manages to keep her moan quiet.

"Oh," he murmurs in a low, dark voice, the kind of voice she dreams about when she wakes aching and sweaty, rolling over so she can have him. It's been a long time since he's said no. "It's like that, is it?"

She thinks this is it, he's finally going to take her upstairs - she has plans for the elevator and the wall just inside their hotel room door. She's pretty sure she has him riding the edge of his control the same way she's just barely clinging to hers.

She wants him. She always wants him.

Her husband.

Because there had been a time she'd convinced herself it wasn't possible, that he'd never want her the way she still wants him. But somewhere along the line that had changed, had brought them here and she'd learned that telling him, showing him, fighting for him, had been the best decision she'd ever made. Well, that's how she'll always tell the story anyway, even if she does embellish and change certain details.

So she leans in, presses her mouth just under his ear. "It's always like this."

His hand tightens around hers, his palm pressing just enough to make her subtly arch into him. Her breath catches. She has him.

"Go get a drink, sweetheart," he tells her, nudging her away. She wants to grin.

"Try to use a different excuse than your wife has a headache. I'm still getting mocked for the last time."

She's not, they both know, but it gives her time and an excuse to brush her hand down his tie before she saunters - and that's definitely what it is, deliberate and tempting - towards the bar.

She chats with the kid at the bar - because that's what he is, even if he's bright and witty. She'll leave her card, she thinks. She likes his potential - until he returns and pulls her with exaggerated gentleness from her seat. She shivers as he tugs her along, offers waves and smiles as they depart. He tugs her close as they wait for the elevator, presses a kiss to her temple. It's an affectionate moment in the heat they've generated and she settles into him easily.

The moment stays quiet and soft, even when the elevator arrives. As desperate as the heat between them - and she can feel it in the way his fingers tense against her hip, the way he presses them, just slightly, against the wall - she likes that they take this time, this moment. They both tend to prefer slow and savory, a testament to how many times it's been hard and fast and a release rather than an expression of emotion that is so often more than words can say, so it doesn't surprise her really. His hands stroke her back as she nudges her way beneath his chin, nuzzling her nose against the notch between his collarbones. They stand there, together, until the elevator dings their arrival.

They don't rush to their hotel room, but she wonders if it's a near thing. She can feel it rising within her, the subtle quickening of her pace as anticipation builds. He pulls the key card from his pocket, flashing her a sly grin that makes her laugh and step closer against his back. Her mouth presses against the bare skin at the back of his neck, her body right up against his and thrills when it takes him three tries to unlock the door.

And once they're inside, patience flies out the window.

She doesn't quite make a noise when he shoves her against the wall but it's a near thing. He wastes no time. His mouth devours hers as his hands wander over her waist, her hips, as far down her thigh as he can reach. She's not much better, shoving his jacket from his shoulders and yanking on his tie. Her mouth battles his and she whimpers when he breaks the kiss, even as his lips trail over her cheek and jaw. He knows exactly where the zipper is and makes quick work of it as her shaking fingers battle his buttons.

The dress falls to the floor in a whisper of fabric, leaving her mostly bare in the dim light of the room. She can feel the way he pushes against her hips, wants to press her back against the wall to get his eyes on her, then his hands, but she's in no mood to look. Looking is what they've done all evening, the high society pressure to not touch slamming in on her and making her desperate with the need to touch and take. She settles on letting him step back just slightly, and only because it lets her deal with the rest of his buttons, his belt and the fastening of his pants. He presses a gentle kiss to her cheek, tries to get a hold of her hands.

"Emily-"

"No," she answers. "This. Now."

He placates her by undoing his shirt cuffs himself, lets her shove the shirt from his shoulders, then pull the t-shirt underneath up over his head. Then, when he gets his hands back on her, he goes on the offensive. His hands cup her breasts, flick out across her nipples. It makes her breath hitch, her eyes go dark, but she can see in his gaze that it's not enough. She shivers despite herself. The game has changed and while she's never against his determination to make her scream, she's not going to make it easy for him.

So she bites down on her lip, even as his mouth nips at her neck, her pulse, then down across her collarbone. He slides his thumbs against the sensitive underside of her breasts and leaves her nerves sparking pleasurably in his wake. She feels him step back as his mouth moves lower, hates the loss of his body against hers, and simultaneously doesn't want to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. It leaves her arching, lifting her chest into the movements of his mouth. He chuckles, that low, dark sound that she loves. And then he wraps his mouth around the peak of her breast and sucks. Hard.

That gets a sound from her, of course. They know each other too well, have done this too many times for him not to know exactly how to apply his mouth to her skin. He does it now, pulling out every trick, from tight fingers on her hips – desperate, needy, a little bit at her mercy – to the pull of his mouth on her breast – dominating, strong, like he has all of the control between them. The juxtaposition is one that she adores and she grips his hair to tug him up to her mouth.

“Aaron,” she says against his mouth, an order and a plea. “More.”

He can’t resist her, hasn’t been able to for more years than they can count. He skates his fingers up her thigh and between them, combs through her curls once, twice. She’s already soaked and he doesn’t bother to tease her now. He wants to make her scream, wants to throw her over the edge without a breath. And sets about doing just that. His fingers fill her, his thumb presses against her clit and with all of that intense concentration focused on her it doesn’t take much. His fingers press up, his thumb down, and she does scream as he sends her careening over the edge.

Her hand is still clenched in his hair when she blinks away the stars, even as he holds her gently against his chest. She forces herself to relax, to let herself go limp and he’s pressing his mouth against her shoulder, her cheek, her neck. She leans back enough to catch his mouth, to kiss him with the slow reverence that she hasn’t exhibited much tonight.

He cradles her close as he kisses her back, as his hands slip over her back, her hips, her thighs. It’s not so seductive as it is reverent and her hands soften in response.

“Bed,” she murmurs when he pulls away so they can catch their breath. “Take me to bed.”

He doesn’t hesitate and doesn’t stumble as they head for the bed, as she lets him drop her to the mattress with a bounce. She laughs as he climbs in after her, spreads himself out over her. They work together to push his pants over his hips down his legs and she hears the double thump of his shoes hitting the floor. She smiles into his kiss, wraps her hand around the nape of his neck and her legs around his hips.

Then he shifts, presses inside her and her head drops back with the pleasure of it. She sighs when he bottoms out, when he can push no further, a contented, wholly in love sound. There will never be anything like the wonderful stretch of having him inside her.

“God, sweetheart.”

She hums her agreement, eyes fluttering open to meet his. He shifts, gets his hands into her hair and she whimpers as he shifts.

“I love you,” he whispers to her, leans down to brush his mouth gently against hers. “So much.”

“I love you too,” she whispers back. “Now move.”

And he does, slow at first, savouring the push and pull of it. She meets his every thrust, doesn’t care about being quiet now. It isn’t about control anymore, about keeping things close to the vest. This is the exact opposite. This is a celebration of what they have, what they’ve built, that they can do this and have this. Slowly, methodically, he loses control, his hips moving faster, his hands clenching and tugging at her scalp. It’s the edge she needs to send her climbing with him, heat burning in her core and pleasure in her stomach.

“Let go, Emily,” he says in a low voice. “Let go for me, sweetheart.”

She wants to and she manages to slide a hand between them to press against her clit. He increases his pace again, puts some strength behind it. Her breath catches with every thrust, pushing her up the bed. She feels her muscles tighten, feels the way they clamp down.

“Aaron,” she moans. “Aaron, please.”

“That’s it, sweetheart. There you are. Look at you.”

And one more push, hard and deep and perfect and she screams again, loud and without restraint. He’s still hard inside her when she comes down and she gasps as he shifts, moves. He groans.

“Can’t-“

She shushes him gently. “Your turn.”

It takes three deep, erratic thrusts before he groans into her neck and follows her into beautiful oblivion.


End file.
